Marked For Execution
by A Cunning Plan
Summary: Today is Doctor Harleen Quinzel’s first session with her new patient. In the few moments before their session begins, she muses on the long line of therapists who have attempted to treat the Joker before her.


The clock on the wall reads 9:45. The session doesn't start for another fifteen minutes and the therapy rooms are about five minutes' walk from my office, at the most, but I decide to leave now anyway - the wait is killing me. I catch a glimpse of my reflection, hastily pick up the folder and notebook on my desk and take a deep breath before leaving the room.

This is it.

The folder in my arms has #4479 stamped on the front, but someone has crossed it out and scribbled 'Joker' underneath. It contains nothing more than precautions and patient-specific warnings - the Joker's actual patient file compromises of a whole filing cabinet full of notes, medical and police records down in the Archive Department. I still haven't managed to read through everything.

I'm at the end of the corridor already. Taking another deep breath, I try and concentrate on walking slower.

Patient #4479, also known as the Joker, is Arkham Asylum's most infamous patient. He holds the records for number of escapes, number of therapists seen, days spent in solitary confinement and number of crimes committed onsite. He's feared by even the most hardened of psychiatrists and his crimes are legend. He's the most popular topic of discussion for interns and new staff - those who've worked here a while try to avoid the subject, as if speaking of him will bring bad luck. He's the reason many people choose to work at Arkham.

I reach the elevators and press the button. My watch reads 9:46.

Of all the therapists he's seen in his numerous stays here, seven are now in full time psychiatric care, four have been killed onsite, six have moved out of the state, three have left the country, one is in a coma, two have just disappeared and five have committed suicide. Of all those still alive, every single one is undergoing some form of therapy. The man is a master of manipulation: he's talked a hardened security guard into giving himself a Glasgow smile; thought to have been involved in the deaths of three patients in cells near to his; he's convinced trained and experienced doctors to sneak him out of the asylum only to kill them and driven at least a dozen people insane.

The elevator doors rattle open. People give me plenty of space as I step inside; the folder in my arms marks me next for execution. I wonder if I was naive to think I could handle this. My watch says 9:47.

In just one week, we went through three different therapists. (I remember that clearly; it was my first week at the Asylum). He's allowed himself to be brutally mutilated just so he can get his own way. One of his previous therapists was sent to jail for attempted murder.

The elevator lurches downwards and I feel sick. There's a clock above the door, but it must be fast - the time on it is 9:52.

Maybe I'm not naive for doing this. All the other doctors, they do it for the fame and the money. They use him as a test for whatever new theories they've come up with and an easy way of getting fame to promote their new books. No wonder he responds in such a violent manner.  
I'd be lying if I said the money wasn't an attractive feature - I'm still living like a student! - but I'm doing it for more than that. Maybe I could help, maybe I will be the one to cure him (in which case, why not write a book? It'd be expected of me.) Maybe I can change him. Because unlike all the other doctors, I can see that under that menacing reputation there's a person who needs help. Dr Leland says the caring approach is the wrong one to take, but what does she know? It's never been tried before so maybe it will be the one that will work. I've done my research. I know what he's like, how he tricks people, and I'm sure I can sidestep his traps. Which doesn't make me naive. Does it?

The elevator clanks to a lurching stop. I step out, feeling nauseous. My watch tells me it's 9:49.

He's a genius who really knows what he's doing. Who's to say he won't rip me apart in the first five seconds, like everyone keeps telling me he will. So what if I acquired my college grades through a little ... extracurricular activity? It doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing. I might be new, but I've made good progress with my other patients. This could be a good thing. I'll be the one the help him because I'm not the one rigidly set in my ways. Stuff everyone else. I have faith in myself, and that's good enough, isn't it?

I round a corner and take another deep breath. I can see the room - there are security guards standing by the door already. 9:51. I guess I'm not the only one who likes to be early.

Maybe I'll succeed because I'll be the one who didn't objectify him as some heartless criminal. He's done some really terrible things but under all that he's a person and... oh, god, I don't know. Maybe he'll respond. Or maybe everybody else is right. I'm not ready for this. He'll just tear me to shreds as soon as I step in the door and it'll all be over. Oh hell. It must be so _obvious_ that I'm scared.

The two guards nod curtly at me.

"We'll be out here if you need us, Doctor Quinzel," one says gruffly. "Just yell."

I nod and take another deep breath. 9:52. The door is open.

This is it.

* * *

_A/N: If any of you were wondering, I took the Joker's patient number - #4479 - from 'The Joker Blogs' on YouTube. (I really couldn't resist!) _


End file.
